 Section 19 of Book of English Ballads by George Edward Read for LibriVox.org by Mike Harris The Nut Brown Maid Be it right or wrong these men among on women do complain, affirming this how that it is a labour spent in vain to love the Muella for never a deli they love a man again, for let a man do what he can, their favour to attain, yet if a new do them pursue their first true lover then laboureth for naught, for from her thought he is a banished man. I say not nay, but that all day is both written, said, that woman's faith is, as who sayeth, all utterly decayed, but nevertheless right good-witness in this case might be laid, that they love true and continue record the Nut Brown Maid, which when her love came from her to prove to her to make his moan, would not depart for in her heart she loved but him alone. Then between us let us discuss what was all the manner, between them too we will also tell all the pain and fear, that she was in now, I begin, to see that ye may answer, where for all ye that present be I pray you give an ear, I am the night, I come by night, as secret as I can, saying alas, thus standeth the case I am a banished man. And she would say, and I ear will for to fulfil in this will not refuse, trusting to shoo and wordest few that men have an ill use to their own shame women to blame, and causeless them accuse, therefore to you I answer now all women to excuse, mine own heart dear with you that cheer I pray you, tell an own, for in my heart of all mankind I love but you alone. He says, it standeth so I did is so do, where of great harm shall grow, my destiny is for to die a shameful death I throw, or else to flee the one must be none other way I know but to withdraw as an outlaw, and take me to my bow, wherefore ado my own heart true none other read I can, for I must to the Greenwood go alone a banished man. O Lord, what is this world as bliss that changeseth as the moon, my summer's day and lusty may is dark before the noon, I hear you say farewell, nay, nay, we depart not so soon, why say ye so, would it will ye go, alas, what have ye done, all my welfare to sorrow and care should change if ye were gone, for in my mind of all mankind I love but you alone. I can believe, it shall you grieve, and somewhat you destrain, but afterward your pain is hard within a day or twain, shall soon a slake in ye shall take comfort to you again. Why should you want, for to make thought your labor were in vain, and thus I do and pray you to as heartily as I can, for I must to the Greenwood go alone a banished man. Now, sitheth that ye have shooed to me the secret of your mind, I shall be plain to you again like as ye shall me find. Sitheth so that ye will go, I will or not leave behind, shall never be said that not Brown maid was to her love unkind. Make you ready for so am I, although it were unknown, for in my mind of all mankind I love but you alone. Yet I you read to take good heed that men shall think and say, of young and old it shall be told that ye be gone away, your wanton will for to fulfill in Greenwood you to play, and that ye might from your delight no longer make delay, rather than ye should thus for me be called an ill woman. Yet would I to the Greenwood go alone a banished man? Though it be sung for old and young that I should be to blame, there's be the charge that speaks so large and hurting of my name, for I will prove that faithful love it is devoid of shame, in your distress and heaviness, to part with you the same. And sure, although what do not so true lovers are they none, for in my mind of all mankind I love but you alone. I counsel you remember how it is no maidens' law, nothing to doubt but to rent out, to wood with an outlaw, for you must there in your hand bear a bow ready to draw, and as a thief thus must you live, ever in dread and awe. Whereby to you great harm might fall, yet had I lever then, that I had to the Greenwood go alone a banished man? I think not nay, but as ye say it is no maidens' law, but love may make me for your sake, as I have said before, to come on foot to hunt and shoot, to get us meet and store, for so that I your company may have I ask no more, from which to part it maketh my heart as cold as any stone, for in my mind of all mankind I love but you alone. For an outlaw this is the law, that men him taken by and without that he hang'd to be, and waver with the wind, if I had need as God forbid, what rescue could ye find? For sooth I throw you and your bow for fear would draw behind, and no marvel for little avail were in your counsel then, wherefore I will the Greenwood go alone a banished man. Right well know ye that women be but feeble for to fight, no woman heeded is indeed to be bold as a knight, yet in each fear if that ye were with enemies day and night I would withstand with bow and hand to grieve them as I might, and you to save as women have from death men many a one, for in my mind of all mankind I love but you alone. Yet take good heed, for ever I'd read that you could not sustain the thorny ways the deep valleys, the snow, the frost, the rain, the cold, the heat for dry or wet. We must lodge on the plain, and us above none other roof, but a break-bush or twain, which soon should grieve you, I believe, and he would gladly then that I had to the Greenwood go alone a banished man. Sith I have here been parting here with you of joy and bliss. I must all's part of your woe endure as reason is. Yet am I sure of one pleasure, and shortly it is this, that where ye be me seameth part I could not fair amiss. Without more speech are you beseech that we were soon a gone, for in my mind of all mankind I love but you alone. If you go thinder ye must consider when ye have lust to dine there shall no meat be before you get, nor drink, beer, ale, nor wine. No sheets clean to lie between, made of thread and twine, none other house but leaves and boughs to cover your head and mine. O mine heart, sweet, this evil diet should make you pale and wan, wherefore I will to the Greenwoods go alone a banished man. Among the wild deer such an archer as men say that ye be, may not fail of good vital where is so great plenty, and water clear of the river shall be full sweet to me, with which in hell I shall write well endure, as ye shall see, and, or we go, a better two can provide anon, for in my mind of all mankind I love but you alone. Lo yet before ye must do more, for ye will go with me as cut your hair up by your ear, your curtled by the knee, with bow in hand for to withstand your enemies if need be, and this same night before daylight to Woodward will I flee, if that ye will all this fulfill, do it shortly as ye can, else will I to the Greenwood go alone a banished man. I shall now do more for you than longeth to woman head, to short my hair a bow to bear, to shoot in time of need. O my sweet mother, before all other for you I have most treat, but now a dew I must ensue, where fortune doth me lead. All this make ye, now let us flee, the day cometh fast upon, for in my mind of all mankind I love but you alone. Nay, nay, not so ye shall not go, and I shall tell ye why. Your appetite is to be light of love by well a spy, for like as ye have said to me, in likewise hardly, ye would answer whosoever it were in way of company. It's said of old, soon hot, soon cold, and so as a woman, wherefore I to the Woodward will go alone a banished man. If ye take heed, it is no need such words to say to me, for off ye prayed and long as said, or I you loved par day, and though that I of ancestry a barren's daughter be, yet have ye proved how I you loved a squire of low degree, and ever shall whatsoever fall to die, therefore unknown, for in my mind of all mankind I love but you alone. A barren's child to be beguiled it were a cursed deed, to be fellow for an outlaw, all mighty God forbid, yet better were the poor squire alone to forest ye. Then ye shall say another day that by my cursed deed ye were betrayed, wherefore good made, the best read that I can. Is thy that the green would go alone a banished man? Whatever befall I never shall of this thing you upgrade, but if ye go and leave me so, then have ye me betrayed. Remember you well a how that ye dweller, for if ye as ye said be so unkind to leave behind your love the nut-brown made, trust me truly that I shall die soon after you be gone. For in my mind of all mankind I love but you alone. If that ye went ye should repent for in the forest now, I have pervade me of a maid whom I love more than you, another fairer than ever ye were I dare it will avow, and you both each should be wroth, with others I trove. If it were my knees to live in peace so will I if I can, wherefore I to the wood will go alone a banished man. Though in the wood I understood ye had a paramour, all this may not remove my thought, but that I shall be your, and she shall find me soft and kind and courteous every hour. Glad to fulfil all that she will command me to my power, for had ye low and a hundred moe of them I would be one, for in my mind of all mankind I love but you alone. My own dear love, I see the proof that she be kind and true of maid and wife in all my life, the best that ever I knew. Be merry and glad, be no more sad, the cases change it new. For it were Ruth that, for your truth, you should have caused to rue. Be not dismayed whatsoever, I said to you when I began. I will not to the green wood go, I am no banished man. These tidings be more glad to me than to be made a queen. If I were sure you should endure, but it is often seen. When men will break promise they speak the word is on the spleen. Ye shape some while me to beguile, and steal from me, I wean. Then were the case worse than it was, and I more woe be gone, for in my mind of all mankind I love but you alone. Ye shall not need further to dread, I will not disparage, you God forbid, sit he descend. Oh so great a lineage, now understand, to Westmoreland which is mine heritage I will you bring, and with a ring by way of marriage I will you take, and lady make, as shortly as I can. Thus have you won an earliest son and not a banished man. And the author says, Here ye may see that women be in love meek, kind, and stable. Let never man reprove them then, or call them variable, but rather pray God that we may to them be comfortable, which sometime proveeth such as he loveth. If they be charitable, for sith man would be that women should be meek to them each one. Much more ought they to God obey, and serve but him alone. End of the ballad of the nut-brown maid. This recording is in the public domain. Section 20 Of Book of English Ballads by George Edwards Read for LibriVox.org by Kalinda The False Lover A fair maid sat in her bower door, ringing her lily hands, and by it came a sprightly youth, fast trippin' o'er the strands. Where gang ye young John, she says? Sirely in the day? It gars me think by your fast trip your journey's far away. He turned about with surly look, and said, What's that to thee? I'm going to see a lovely maid, more fairer far than ye. Now how ye played me this false love in summer mid the flowers? I shall repay ye back again in winter mid the showers. But again, dear love, and again, dear love, will ye not turn again? For as ye look to other women, I shall do to other men. Make your choice a whom ye please, for I my choice will have. I've chosen a maid more fair than thee, I never will deceive. But she's killed up clothing fine, and after him gaid she. But I, he said, you'll turn again, nay far to go with me. But again, dear love, and again, dear love, will ye never love me again? Alas, for lovin' you so well, and you know me again. But again, dear love, and again, dear love, will ye never love me again? Alas, for lovin' you so well, and you know me again. The next in town that they came till, he bought her moth and gloves. But I, he bade her turn again, and chose some other loves. But again, dear love, and again, dear love, will ye never love me again? For as ye look to other women, I shall do to other men. But again, dear love, and again, dear love, will ye never love me again? Alas, for lovin' you so well, and you know me again. The next in town that they came till, his heart it grew more fine, and he was deep in love with her, and she was our again. The next in town that they came till, he bought her a wedding gown, and made her lady a his and bower's in sweet Burwick town. End of Ballad. This recording is in the public domain. Section 21 of Book of English Ballads by George Edwards. Read for LibriVox.org by Susan Frum, The Mermaid. To Jan Faust's stream that near the sea hides money and elf and plum, and rives with fearful din the stains. A witless night did come, the day shines clear, far in his gain. While shells are silver bright, fishes while loopin' are around, and sparkling to the light. When, as he lived, sounds calm, say sweet, frae ilka rock and tree. The brief was out, it was him it doomed, the mermaids face to sea. Frae nitha rock, soon soon she rose, and stately on she swam. Stopped he the midst, and beck'd and sang, to him to stretch his hand. Gowden gleased the yellow links, that round her neck she'd twine. Her eon were o' the sky blue, her lips did mock the wine. The smile upon her bonny cheek, was sweeter than the bee. Her voice excelled, the birdies sang, upon the birchen tree. Say, Couthy, Couthy, did she look? And Meekle, had she fleached, outshot his hand. Alas, alas, fast in the swirl he screeched. The mermaid looked, her brief was gain, and Kelpie's blast was blowin'. Fool, oh, she dooked, near race again, for deep, deep was the fowin'. A boon in the stream his wreath was seen, while ox-tailed a lang at Glowman, that eon was chorus. The blast blew hoarse, airling the waves were foamin'. End of Ballad This recording is in the public domain. Section 22 of Book of English Ballads by George Edwards Read for LibriVox.org by Stephen Reed The Battle of Otterburn The First Fight It fell about the lamest tide, when husbands win their hay. The doughy Douglas bound him to ride, into England to take a prey. The earl of Fife, without in strife, he bound him over Sol Way. The great would ever together ride, that race they may rue for eye. Over Ottercap Hill they came in, and so down by Rotherly Crag. Upon Green Layton they lighted down, Strirand many a stag. And boldly Brent Northumberland, and harried many a town. They did our Englishmen great wrong, to battle, that were not on. They spake a burn upon the bent, of comfort that was not cold. And said, We have Brent Northumberland, we have all wealth in hold. Now we have harried all Bramberashire, all the wealth in the world have we. I read we ride to Newcastle, so still and stall worthy. Upon the morrow when it was day, the standards shone full bright. To the Newcastle they took the way, and thither they came full bright. Sir Henry Percy lay at the Newcastle, I tell you, without in dread, he has been a Marchman all his days, and kept Burwick upon tweed. To the Newcastle when they came, the Scots they cried on hype. Sir Henry Percy, and thou best within, come to the field and fight. For we have Brent Northumberland, thy heritage good and right. And sin my lodging I have take, with my brand, dubbed many a night. Sir Henry Percy came to the walls, the Scottish host Forty-C, and thou hast Brent Northumberland, for sore it rueeth me. If thou hast harried all Bramberashire, thou hast done me great envy. For thy trespassed thou hast me done, and the one of us shall die. Where shall I bind thee, said the Douglas, or where wilt thou come to me? At Otterburn, in the highway, thou mayest thou well lodged be. The row full reckless there she runs, to make thee, game and glee, the falcon and the pheasant both, among the Holties on he. There mayest thou have thy wealth at will, well lodged there mayest thou be. It shall not be long ere I come thee till, said Sir Henry Percy. There shall I bind thee, said the Douglas, by the faith of my body. Thither shall I come, said Sir Henry Percy. By troth I plight to thee. A pipe of wine he gave them over the walls. For sooth, as I you say, there he made the Douglas drink, and all his host that day. The Douglas turned him homeward again, for sooth without an nay. He took his lodging at Otterburn upon a Wednesday. And there his fight his standard down, his getting more and less, and soon he warned his men to go and get their gildings, Gress. A Scottish knight, hooved upon the bent, a watch I dare well say. So was he where on the noble Percy, in the dawning of the day. He pricked to his pavilion door, as fast as he might run. A waken Douglas cried the night, for his love that sits in throne. A waken Douglas cried the night, for thou mayest waken with wine. Yonder have I spied the proud Percy, and seven standards with him. Nay, by my troth the Douglas said, but is but a feigned tale. He durst not look on my broad banner, for all England so hail. Was I not yesterday at the Newcastle, that stand so fair on time? For all the men the Percy had, he could not gear me once to dine. He stepped out at his pavilion door, to look, and it were less. Array you'd, Lordlings, one and all, for here begins no peace. The Earl of Menteeth, thou art my Emmy, the Ford I give to thee. The Earl of Huntley, Court and Keane, he shall with thee be. The Lord of Buchan, in armour bright, on the other hand he shall be. Lord Johnston, and Lord Maxwell, the two shall be with me. Swindon fair field upon your pride, to battle make you bowen. Sir Davy Scott, Sir Walter Stewart, Sir John of Angerstone. The second fight. The Percy came before his host, which ever was a gentle night. Upon the Douglas loud did he cry, I will hold that I have hope. For thou hast Brent Northumberland, and done me great Envy. For this trespass, thou hast me done, the one of us shall die. The Douglas answered him again, with great words up on he, and said, I have twenty against thy one, behold, and thou mayst see. With that the Percy was grieved soar, for sooth as I you say. He lighted down upon his foot, and shot his horse clean away. Every man saw that he did so, that Ryle was ever enroute. Every man shot his horse him fro, and liked him round about. Thus Sir Harry Percy took the field, for sooth as I you say. Jesus Christ in heaven on high, did help him well that day. But nine thousand there was no more. If Chronicle were not lain, forty thousand Scots and four that day fought them again. But when the battle began to join, in haste there came a night. Then letters fear forth hath he tain, and thus he said, full right. My Lord, your Father, he greets you well, with many a noble night. He desires you to bide, that he may see this fight. The barren of grass-stock is come out of the west, with him a noble company. All they lodge at your Fathers this night, and the battle-fane would they see. For Jesus' love said Sir Harry Percy, that died for you and me, when'd to my Lord my Father again, and say thou saw me not with thee. My troth is plight to yon Scottish night, it needs me not to lain, that I should bide him upon this bent, and I have his troth again. And if that I wend off this ground, for sooth unfortunate away, he would me call but a coward night, in his land another day. Yet had I lever'd to be run'd and rent'd, by Mary that Mikkel may, that ever my manhood should be reproved, with a scot another day, wherefore shoot archers for my sake, and let sharp arrows flee, minstrels play up for your worrison, and well quit it shall be. Every man think on his true love, and mark him to the trinity, for to God I make mine avow, this day will I not flee. The bloody heart in the Douglas's arms, his standard stood on high, that every man might full well know, besides stood stairs three. The white lion on the English part, for soon as I you say, the Luke's and the Crescent's both, the Scots fought them again. Upon St Andrew loud did they cry, and thrice they shout on high, and soon mark them on our Englishman, as I have told you right. St George the Bright, our Lady's night, to name they were full feign, our Englishman they cried on height, and thrice they shout again. With that sharp arrows began to flee, I tell you in certain, men of arms began to join, many a doughy man was their slain. The Percy and the Douglas met, that either of them was feign, they shapped together, while that they sweat, with swords of fine collane. Till the blood from their Bessonettes ran, as the rogue doth in the rain, yield thee to me, said the Douglas, or else thou shalt be slain. For I see by thy bright Bessonette, thou art some man of might, and so I do by thy burnished brand, thou art an earl or else a knight. By my good faith, said the noble Percy, thou hast thou red full right, yet will I never yield me to thee, while I may stand and fight. They swapped together, while that they sweat, with swords sharp and long, each on another so fast they beat, till their helms came in pieces down. The Percy was a man of strength, I tell you in this sound, he smote the Douglas at the sword's length, that he felled him to the ground. The sword was sharp and saw did bite, I tell you in certain, to the heart he did him smite, thus the Douglas was slain. The standard stood still on each side, with many aggrievous groan. There they fought the day and all the night, and many a doughy man was slown. There was no fricke that there would fly, but stiffly in stour did stand. A shone hewn on other, while they might dry, with many a baffled brand. There was slain upon the Scotty's side, for sooth and certainly, Sir James of Douglas there was slain, that they that he did die. The earl of Menteeth he was slain, grisly groaned upon the ground, Sir Davy Scott, Sir Walter Stuart, Sir John of Angerstone. Sir Charles Murray in that place, that never a foot would fly, Sir Hugh Maxwell, a lord he was, with the Douglas he did die. There was slain upon the Scotty's side, for sooth as I you say, or four and forty thousand Scots went but eighteen away. There was slain upon the English side, for sooth and certainly, a gentle night, Sir John Fitzhugh, it was more the pity. Sir James Herebotel there was slain, for him their hearts were sore, the gentle love there was slain, that the Percy's standard bore. There was slain upon the English side, for sooth as I you say, of nine thousand Englishmen, five hundred came away. The others were slain in the field, Christ keep their souls from woe, seeing there were so few friends against so many a foe. Then on the moor they made them bears, of birch and hazel gray, many a widow with weeping tears, their makes they fetch away. This fray began at Otterburn between the night and the day, there the Douglas lost his life and the Percy was led away. Then was there a Scottish prisoner taken, Sir Hugh Montgomery was his name, for sooth as I you say, he borrowed the Percy home again. Now let us all for the Percy pray to Jesus most of might, to bring his soul to the bliss of heaven, for he was a gentle night. End of ballad. This recording is in the public domain. My love he built me a bonny power, and clad it we a lily flower, a brawer power ye ne'er did see. Then my true love he built for me. There came a man, by middle day he spied his sport and went away, and brought the king that very night, who break my power and slew my night. He slew my night to me so dear, he slew my night and poined his gear. My servants all for life did flee, and left me in extremity. I sewed his sheet, making my mane, I watched the corpse myself alone. I watched his body night and day, no living creature came that way. I took his body on my back, and whilst I gade, and whilst I sat, I digged a grave and laid him in, and happed him with the sod so green. But think na ye, my hair was fair, when I laid the mowl on his yellow hair. Think na ye, my hair was way, when I turned about. Away to gay, nay living man I'll love again. Since that my lovely night is slain, with a lock of his yellow hair, I'll chain my hair to forever mare. End of Ballad. This recording is in the public domain. Section 24 of Book of English Ballads by George Edwards Read for LibriVox.org by Bridget Talon The Banks of Yarrow Later Ian drink in the wine, and ere they paid the lawing, they set a combat then between to fight it in the dooring. What though ye be my sister's lord, we'll cross our swords tomorrow. What though my wife your sister be, I'll meet ye then on Yarrow. Oh, stay at home, my own good lord. Oh, stay my own, dear marrow. My cruel breather with you betray on the dowy banks of Yarrow. Oh, fare ye wheel, my lady dear, and put aside your sorrow, for if I gay I'll soon return for the bonny banks of Yarrow. She kissed his cheek, she came to his hair, as off she'd done before. She belted him with his good brand, and he's away to Yarrow. When he gave up the tennis bank, as he gave many a morrow, nine armored men laying a den on the dowy braze of Yarrow. Oh, come ye here to hunt or hawk the bonny forest, Darrow, or come ye here to wheel your brand upon the banks of Yarrow. I come not here to hunt or hawk as off thou'd done before, but I come here to wheel my brand upon the banks of Yarrow. If ye attack me nine to aim, then may God send ye sorrow, yet will I fight while stand I may on the bonny banks of Yarrow. Two has he hurt, and three has slain on the bloody braze of Yarrow, but the stubborn knight crept in behind and pierced his body thorough. Gay home, gay home, ye brother John, and tell your sister sorrow to come and lift her leaf a lord on the dowy banks of Yarrow. Her brother John gay'd o'er yon hill, as off he'd done before. There he met his sister dear, come running fast to Yarrow. I dreamt a dream last night, she says. I wish it'd been a sorrow. I dreamt I'd put the heather green with my true love on Yarrow. I'll read your dream, sister, he says. I'll read it into sorrow. Ye bidn't go take up your love, ye sleeping sound on Yarrow. She's torn the ribbons right ahead, that were breath-brayed and narrow. She's kilted up her long cladding, and she's away to Yarrow. She's tamed him in her arm's twa, and she's given him kisses thorough. She's sought to bind his money wounds, but he lay dead on Yarrow. Oh, hold your tongue, her father says, and let be all your sorrow. I'll wed you to a better lord than him ye lost on Yarrow. Oh, hold your tongue, father, she says. Far worse ye make my sorrow. A better lord could never be than him that lies on Yarrow. She kissed his lips, she caned his hair, as oft she had done before old. And there with grief her heart did break upon the banks of Yarrow. Hugh of Lincoln, showing the cruelty of a Jew's daughter. Four and twenty bonnie boys were playing at the bar, and up it stands him, sweet Sir Hugh, the flower among the ma. He kicked the bar there wee his foot, and kept it it with his knee, till even at the Jew's window he got the bonnie ball flee. Cast out the bar to me, firm maid, cast out the bar to me. Never a bit says the Jew's daughter till ye come up to me. Come up, sweet Hugh, come up, dear Hugh, come up and get the bar. I winnie come, I may ne come, without me bonnie boy's awe. She's tainer to the Jew's garden, where the grass grew long and green. She's put an apple red and white, to wild a bonnie boyine. She's wild him in through a chamber, she's wild him in through twa, she's wild him in into the third chamber, and that was the worst of awe. She's tied the little boy hands and feet, she's pierced him with a knife, she's caught his heart's blood in a golden cup, and twinned him o' his life. She rode him in a cake of lead, bade him lie still in sleep. She cast him in a deep draw well, was fifty fathom deep. When bells were rung and mass was sung, and every burn went hem. Then Ilka Lady had her young son, but Lady Helen had name. She rode her mantel her about, in seer sergan she weep, and she ran unto the Jew's house, where they were all asleep. My bonnies are hew, my pretties are hew, I pray ly to me speak. Lady Helen come to the deep draw well, Guinyi your son would seek. Lady Helen ran to the deep draw well, and knelt upon her knee. My bonnies are hew, and ye be here, I pray ly speak to me. The lead is wondrous heavy, ma'ther, the well is wondrous deep. A keen pen knife sticks in my heart, and it's hard for me to speak. Gehem, gehem, me, my dear, fetch me my winding sheet, and at the back of Mary Lincoln, it's there we twashe'll meet. Now Lady Helen, she's Gehem, made him a winding sheet, and at the back of Mary Lincoln, the dead corpse did her meet. And all the balls of Mary Lincoln, without men's hands, were rung, and all the books of Mary Lincoln, were read without men's tongue. Never was such a burial, such a burial, such a burial, never was such a burial, St. Adam's Day's Beacon. End of ballad. This recording is in the public domain. Oh, where will I get a skeely skipper to sail a ship of mine? Oh, up on spack an elder knight, sat at the king's right knee, Sir Patrick Spence is the best sailor that ever sailed the sea. Our king has written a braid letter and seated it with his hand, and sent it to Sir Patrick Spence, who was walking on the strand. To Naraway, to Naraway, to Naraway, or the femme, the king's daughter of Naraway, tis thou man bring her hem. The first word that Sir Patrick read, say, loud, loud, laugh, tea, the next word that Sir Patrick read, the tear-blinded is he. Oh, why is this has done this deed, and tell the king on me to send us out at this time of the year to sail upon the sea. Be it wind, be it wet, be it hail, be it sleet, our ship must sail a femme, the king's daughter of Naraway, tis we much fessure, I am. They hoist their sails on Mundyman, with all the speed they may, they have landed in Naraway upon a wooden's day. They hadn't have been a week, a week in Naraway but way, when that the lords of Naraway began aloud to say, ye Scottish men spend all our king's gold, and our king's fee, ye lie, ye lie, ye liars loud, foe lie'd I hear ye lie, foe I brought as much white money as again my men and me, and I brought a half foe of good red good out o'er the sea with me. Make ready, make ready, my merry men are, our good ship sails them on, now ever a lake my master dear, I fear a deadly storm. I saw the new moon late yestering, what the old moon in her arm, and if we gang to sea, master, I fear we'll come to harm. They hadn't assailed a league, a league, a league but barely three, when the lift grew dark and the wind blew loud, and girly grew the sea. The anchors break in the top mass slap, it was sick a deadly storm, and the waves came over the broken ship till all her sides were torn. O where will I get a good sailor to take my helm in hand, till I get up to the tall top mast to see if I can spy land? O here I am a sailor good to take the helm in hand till you go up to the tall top mast, but I fear the old nurse by land. He hadn't again a step, a step, a step but barely one, when a bout flew out of our goodly ship, and a salt sea it came in. They fetched a web of the silken clath, another oothe twine, and wap them into our ship's side, and let neither sea come in. They fetched a web of the silken clath, another oothe twine, and they wap them round that good ship's side, but still the sea came in. All lath, lath, were our good scotch lords, to weep their cock-touching, but lying o' the play was played, they wad their hats a-boom, and money was the feather-bed that flattered on the fame, and money was the good lord's son that never merked him. The ladies rang their fingers white, the maidens tore their hair. Ah, for the sake of their through-loves, for them they'll seen them ere. Oh, lang, lang, may the ladies sit, with their fans into their hands, before they cease their Patrick spends, come sailing to the strand. And, lang, lang, may the maidens sit, with their good cams in their hair, awaiting for the end their loves, for them they'll seen them ere. Oh, forty miles off Aberdeen, tis fifty theorems deep, and there lies good Sir Patrick spends, with a scotch lord at his feet. Section 26. A Book of English Ballads by George Edwards. Read for LibraVox.org by Drew Mike. End of ballad.